


Hana

by micehell



Category: Johnny's Entertainment
Genre: AU (Historical), M/M, touch of romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hana can be the passing beauty of the flower of youth, but <i>true</i> hana… that’s a moment of perfect beauty shared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hana

**Author's Note:**

> So many notes: 1)this is set (vaguely) around 1500 in the Muromachi era, right about the time that Sarugaku-no (along the line of acting troupes/opera companies/ dancing troupes, but tending to be set in one location) was edging out the Dengaku-hoshi (who were traveling dancers/performers). I say vaguely because there’s nothing going on that truly identifies the era except in a general ‘obviously not modern day’ type of way. There isn’t a lot of information floating around (in English, at any rate) over the specifics of the dances, either, but nothing should feel too out of place.  
> 2) This was written for the [](http://senpai-exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**senpai_exchange**](http://senpai-exchange.livejournal.com/), but unlike most of my fic exchange stories, this one is neither humor nor crack, quel surprise. ;)

The pots at the corners of the stage rattle in time with every step they take. Their movements aren't the glide of the Sarugaku-no that Mabo had been trained to for years, nor the stomps that emphasized the plays he'd acted out then, when his feet had followed the same patterns countless others had over the worn-smooth wood and under the soft light of paper lanterns that danced with him. Here and now, Mabo's feet move to his own rhythm while he clacks his sasara in time with the pots _clack rattle clack_ and Higashi weaves around him as he always has before.

The late March air grows colder as the sun finally drowns in the distant water of the bay, leaving their world lit by the torches and lamps that surround the stage. The light is bright and clear even with the faint cloud the audience makes as their warm breath puffs _oohs_ and _ahs_ into the chill of the night. The lilting rain of sakura blossoms, white and pink and almost red as they dance past the flickering light to blanket the ground, makes it look like winter, but Mabo feels spring in the lingering traces of warmth in the air and in the smell of the blossoms crushed beneath his feet.

He laughs because he feels like it, not minding the stern look Higashi gives him as he spins by, but it does remind of the expectant audience before him. _Hana_ , true hana, is what he reaches for, to share a moment of perfect beauty through his dance, but another flower distracts him. His steps don't falter, but his focus narrows; the boy’s young and pale, with a long, graceful neck, making even his shabby clothes look elegant. Higashi dances by him, his eye caught as well, in step with Mabo as always, and this time Higashi laughs with him; at the rapt look on the young man's face, at the way his body sways without meaning to, fingers twitching in time to the _clack rattle clack_. They both remember wearing that same look when they were younger, when the rhythm and the stage and the dancing lights first caught them.

They can feel it now as they dance for the boy that watches them as they circle the stage, a flower turning its face to the sun.

 

~*~

Higashi loves the heat, his skin bronzed by the July sun and the warmth deep in his bones, but Mabo is from the North, determinedly pale and wilting in an excess of summer. He's stripped down to his fundoshi as they practice by the river, but the shade from nearby trees and the tall, tall reeds on the bank provide only scant relief from the shimmering waves of _hot_ that roll past them.

When they'd still been with their old troupe, they practiced on a covered stage, safe from the sun and cooled by the younger members taking turns with the fans. It had been stifling all the same, even beyond the costumes and clay masks they'd worn even in practice. The air had always been heavy with expectation, with rivalry, even jealousy, everyone determined to stand out, determined to win at one of the competitions, determined to play in Kyoto, the ultimate stage. Higashi, with his perfect form, with his beautiful face that was always free from a mask, shone on that stage, but Mabo had constantly felt constrained by it. The forms and lines that he had to adhere to, never any room for his own thoughts or the steps that pulled at his wayward feet.

Mabo had also felt smothered by the subtle snubs that followed Higashi's every move, the whispers that echoed in his wake ~ _ronin's son, a frog's child is still a frog_ ~ too many people far too eager at making sure the once-samurai's son knew how far he'd fallen. Mabo had never been whispered about himself, too obscure to cause censure, too misfit to cause jealousy. _So_ , Higashi would always ask (when he bothered to talk about it at all), _if it was me getting all the snubs, why was it you who actually got kicked out of the troupe_? Mabo would just shrug and laugh, not saying the reason why he'd fought back even when Higashi chose to ignore it, just like Higashi never explained his reasons for following after Mabo, leaving behind what he'd worked for all that time. Who needed to say it when it was in every line of their dance; Higashi perfect and controlled, Mabo anything but, and yet always _clack rattle clack_ in step with each other?

They keep practicing even as the clack of the sasara is swallowed by the sound of a cart driving by, the thud of the ox's hooves and drum of the men walking beside it all covered in a cloud of dust from the baked-dry road. As Mabo spins through his dance he catches glimpses of the cart, loaded down with furniture, the men beside it bent by the weight of the packed a-frames on their backs. He feels their eyes slide over him, curiosity dulled by the heat and by the need to get to their destination, but something lingers.

Mabo sees him in the next turn of the dance; dressed in half-pants and a happi coat, left to swing open for any scant wind that might find him, he's as threadbare as he'd been when Mabo had first seen him. Just as pretty, too; long hair tied back in the heat, but with curling strands clinging to that long neck, to those high cheekbones, with their light dusting of moles and freckles that now blend into a summer tan, the one that rides on top of the full lips as alluring as ever. Mabo feels a wash of heat that has nothing to do with the season, feels its echo when Higashi draws near, a stillness shimmering between them.

The cart moves on as the dance ends, the porters following after, but Mabo can feel those eyes on him long after the dust settles.

~*~

The festival banners are white and crisp, the local lord's insignia a proud badge at their heart. They hang from tall poles with streamers flying _red yellow blue_ , the tail of a dragon that flutters in the growing wind. Mabo looks up as he dances to watch the dark clouds scurrying across the sky that promise rain. He hopes it holds off long enough for them to finish, and imagines each step he takes as a spell that will hold back the storm.

Higashi isn't watching the sky, though, his eyes on the milling crowd before them. As the dance turns him back that way, Mabo follows his gaze and sees, amid festival smiles and nervous glances at the darkening sky, the boy that's watching only them.

It's a new town, a new season, a new show they're playing, but the same flower follows them, and Mabo smiles. The first time was chance, only chance. The second time might even have been fate. This time _clack rattle clack_ , this time is choice, the only one of the three Mabo believes in.

Whether it's chance or fate or that the magic of his dance fails, the sky opens up suddenly and drowns the banners and the streamers and the scurrying audience alike. Higashi and Mabo finish their dance calmly, as if it all were planned, bowing to their audience of one, then grab the boy's hand and pull him into the shelter of the nearby woods. The trees are close and dense, the canvas of leaves overhead a roof that lets only stray drops through, filtering through the reds and yellows to paint them in autumn-flavored water.

They're already wet, chilled from the rain; they could make it to a better shelter, warm themselves before a fire at some small inn. But it's the third time, and it was their flower's choice, so Higashi slowly, patiently, perfectly, shows him the steps.

The boy stumbles as he learns, stumbles over roots, stumbles as he shivers from something besides the cold. Mabo moves forward a step, a step, and then another and licks the flavor of leaves and fear and desire off those still alluring lips.

 _The dance is yours to learn_ , Higashi says, taking the lead in this as in so many other things. He pulls the boy to him, tasting the delicate skin over his eyes as he presses words into them, _the lesson's free of any price_. He slides a hand into the habbi that's too thin now that the summer's past, that's too worn to spell out any good fortune, and Mabo's hand twitches to follow as it strokes down over a shivering chest, but he won't yet. Not until Higashi lays out the steps they'll follow. Not until the flower chooses once again.

The accent is the same flavor as the clothes, their flower sprung from common seed, but the voice is as sweet as the words. _It's not a price if I choose to give it_.

It's another dance, then, a welcome one that drives out the chill from the steady rain. Cold hands fumble as the boy learns, then warm against heated flesh. Soft skin draws up at it’s exposed, then grows rosy under a rough tongue and an eager mouth. Full lips are caught between white teeth as Mabo pushes in, then open wide to taste himself on Higashi's tongue. It's another dance, one that Mabo's never shared with anyone else but Higashi, but even in this, even with another person in the weave, they're still in step.

They eventually find a warmer shelter, a softer bed, as the rain falls in a steady curtain through the night, hiding any world but their own from view. _Dance with us_ , Higashi says, looking at Mabo, making sure they agree. _Dance with us_ , Mabo says, wondering if he should say more.

Their lives aren't just the beauty of the stage, the thrill of the dance. There's walking miles and miles, only to dance miles more, always striving to please an audience even if they aren't in a mood to please. There's cheap food and poor lodgings and people that think paying for the dance means paying for the person. But Mabo thinks their boy is used to hardship; callused hands and ribs that show far too well and too many years in such young eyes that shouldn't have seen half so much.

So all he says is, _Come to us when you're ready_.

~*~

Their flower doesn't bloom for them again until it's almost spring. The winter's lingering, though, the ground hard and icy, the winds cold and harsh; they're too far north to dance in the open, but the stage is still cold under their feet and the audience huddles around the fires that light the room. The boy's clothes aren't thick enough even now, his skin paler than it's ever been, but as Mabo dances up the stage towards him, he smiles for the first time that Mabo's seen. Another choice made.

When the others leave, he performs for them; slow, sure steps that he'd stumbled through months before. The pots at the corner of the stage rattle with every step he takes, his feet echoing theirs from earlier that night while he clacks the sasara in time with the pots _clack rattle clack_ , smiling through every mile he's come. He doesn't have Mabo's quickness or reach, nor Higashi's surety and power, but he's graceful and fluid, a sakura blossom dancing across the water, the turn of a hand here and a sway of his hips there adding his color _red yellow blue_ to the dance Mabo and Higashi had made together.

Later cold hands move slow and sure over heated flesh. Later soft skin is rosy and hard as it presses against an eager mouth. Later full lips open wide to Higashi's tongue and tight flesh opens wide to Mabo's cock.

Later they walk for miles and miles, then dance miles more as the road melts away behind them.

/story


End file.
